The guerilla chief, Tom 3

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Strona 250 - Of men, and mingle with the bustling crowd; Lay schemes for wealth, or power, or fame, the wish Of nobler minds, and push them night and day. Or join the caravan in quest of scenes New to your eyes, and shifting every hour, 157 Beyond the Alps, beyond the Apennines.
Strona 121 - Far hence (quoth he) in wastfull wildernesse His dwelling is, by which no living wight May ever passe, but thorough great distresse. Now (sayd the lady) draweth toward night, And well I wote, that of your later fight Ye all forwearied be: for what so strong, But wanting rest will also want of might ? The sunne that measures heaven all day long, At night doth baite his steedes the ocean waves emong.
Strona 219 - Came freshening, and reflecting all the scene. (A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves ;) So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween) Have guess'd some congregation of the elves, To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves.
Strona 55 - ... poor degenerate child her friends difown, Who dares to deviate by a virtuous choice From her great name's hereditary vice. Thefe fcenes my prudence ufhers to my mind, Of all the ftorms and quickfands I muft find, If I embark upon this fummer fea, Where Flatt'ry fmooths, and Pleafure gilds the way. Had our ill fate ne'er blown thy dang'rous flame Beyond the limits of a friend's cold name, I might upon that fcore thy heart receive, And with that guiltlefs name my own deceive; That commerce now...
Strona 146 - Nonsense talked by men of wit and understanding in the hour of relaxation, is of the very finest essence of conviviality, and a treat delicious to those who have the sense to comprehend it ; but it implies a trust in the company not always to be risked.
Strona 99 - Life flutters, convulsed, in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims! Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale Lochiel.
Strona 147 - What visions rise ! to charm, to melt ! The lost, the loved, the dead are near ! Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt ! And cease that solace too severe ! But thou, serenely silent art ! By Heaven and Love wast taught to lend A milder solace to the heart, The sacred image of a friend.
Strona 99 - Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner?

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